


I keep your fingerprints

by wobblyheadeddollcaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Pre-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wobblyheadeddollcaper/pseuds/wobblyheadeddollcaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from the dead. It's somewhat inconvenient for John, who's been hearing his voice for three years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I keep your fingerprints

**Author's Note:**

> Clearing out the archive, I found this old piece. Enjoy.

“It's like a sort of school careers day, then,” John says, looking at Stamford skeptically over an overpriced pint of IPA. “I might point out that my so-called career is hardly something to aim for.” A trajectory that led to perpetual ad hoc GP work was not what the bright young med students of Bart's SMD were being trained to emulate.

 

“They're junior doctors, not children.” Mike sips at his beer, not bothering to protest much.

 

“They look like children.” They didn't used to, but somewhere along the line John has turned into that kind of middle-aged man to whom everyone under twenty-five appears at best frighteningly naïve. _Appearances can be deceptive_ , says a smooth voice in his head (the owner of which is three years dead), and he wills it to be quiet.

 

“Well, at least a few of them are interested in the military. To be honest, I was hoping you could...” Mike opens his arms, shrugging a little.

 

“Scare them off?” John is too tired to be offended on behalf of the armed forces.

 

“Give them some idea what they'd be getting into.” Stamford smiles nervously. “Good and bad.”

 

John can't argue much with that – Stamford's students are basically kids, after all, and there are too many of those out on the battlefields already.

 

So he puts together a slide show, hunt-and-pecking his way through Open Office Impress because Sher- because someone had loaded it onto his laptop, and it seemed to work all right. He looks out some pictures of his old unit, standing grinning in the desert sun, and like a coward he picks the one with the fewest people who are now dead. A familiar voice in his head sneers that if he wants to warn them off, he should take the opposite tack. He sighs, deletes it, and hunts out a different one, then fiddles with the settings till he's worked out how to put rings around the faces of the lost. Why be subtle, after all, at that age he wouldn't have noticed a bloody sledgehammer to the face.

 

He mentions his post-war work at the end but doesn't touch on his other not-quite-job. It's not like any of the students will be able to make a profession out of palling around with Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock is dead-

 

It wasn't a job, anyway. The pay was abysmal, no benefits, long hours-

 

He decides to call Stamford and drop out, but he keeps not quite doing it until suddenly it would be rude, too late to find a replacement.

 

The Barts lecture theatre looks like a vast amphitheatre. John half-expects the lions to come out any minute.

 

“I thought you said there were only going to be a few,” he hisses to Mike, who looks bewildered and smug at the same time.

 

“I thought there were. Oh...” John follows Mike's gaze to see a girl wearing an 'I believe in Sherlock button'. She can't have been old enough to drink when Sherlock-

 

“Persistent,” John grimaces.

 

“I'm sorry,” Stamford says, giving a what-can-you-do shrug. John came to realise a year or so ago that his grief was more prolonged, more intense, than seemed quite normal. He gets out his brave face, well-worn with use. As far as Mike knows, he's normal. Normal in that way, anyway.

 

“Right,” Mike claps his hands. “Everybody settle down now. This is a medical doctoral career talk, and today it's a bit more unusual, Dr Watson here is going to talk about medical practice in combat.”

 

“Thanks Mike. Um. Well, I am John Watson, and in addition to being a doctor I'm also a captain, was a captain, in the RAMC.” He presses the arrow key to show a picture of himself in uniform, at his leaving do, before Afghanistan. “I'm now retired due to various injuries.”

 

As he starts to talk about the surgical speciality he'd gone into to prepare for combat medicine, the door at the top of the lecture theatre opens quietly. A tall, thin figure in a long dark coat slips in to sit at the back.

 

“Now of course surgery is...” John halts, wrestling the uncontrollable leaping of his heart. “Is...” Trust Sherlock to stick his oar in even after death, he thinks, in a moment of irritation so nostalgic it makes his teeth ache. This is the worst possible time to start hallucinating, the voice was bad enough, but this....

 

“Surgery is a speciality in itself, and ER ops have a lot of similarity to battlefield medicine.” John gets a grip. He's practised this, he can just say the lines and get out and have a stiff drink, no, a cup of strong tea, drinking to stop hallucinations is contraindicated. He stifles a giggle.

 

“Ahem. The biggest difference is probably the degree of immersion in the job, living and working on base, no nights out at the pub. I operated on friends and colleagues, frequently, and the impact of that is, can be, quite strong.”

 

He brings up the photo. “I'm not very representative of many of the RAMC. I did a lot more patrolling than was strictly wise. These were my friends.” He presses the key. “And these are the ones who didn't make it home.”

 

As he names his dead in the silenced hall his eyes flick up to that top seat, unwilling, to see if he's recovered his senses. Nope, Sherlock is still there, arms folded like some sort of transmogrified cormorant.

 

“... Mason, and Sher-. And of the rest of us, well. Myself and one other, Bill, are home permanently. This is a real risk, and you should think very carefully about the consequences of this path. I, ah, it was not something I regret doing. I was proud to know these men. But.” He shuffles some papers.

 

“There are other ways to contribute to military medicine. Many cases are transported home, and regenerative medicine, physical therapy, neurology and, ah, psychiatric specialities are all very valued in UK-based military hospitals.”

 

Sherlock looks judgemental as all hell, John can practically see his lips puckered up to keep the bile in. John reflects gloomily that at least he's not talking.

 

“I now work as a locum GP in North London, an NHS practice, but I think you've probably had someone else talk to you about the GP route-” Mike nods at him “-so. Any questions?”

 

The hallucination raises a hand. John keeps scanning the rows below.

 

“Anyone?”

 

There's a faint rustle, before one unusually polite student raises her hand to ask about the training process. John tells her about the crash course at Sandhurst.

 

“Dr Watson,” Sherlock's voice rings out. John talks over him determinedly.

 

“-but admissions there are fairly easy. It's surviving the course that's hard.”

 

“Right, well, if we can all thank Dr Watson for his talk,” Stamford says quickly, slapping his hands together and glaring at the audience till they follow suit. John must, against his will, be showing some sign of his delusion that Mike has spotted.

 

“Sorry, Mike,” he says quietly as the students shuffle out. “I wasn't expecting-”

 

“When did either of us ever expect Sherlock to do anything?” Mike says ruefully, John gapes at him.

 

“Did – how did you know it was him?”

 

“Are you all right, John?” Mike looks at him with concern.

 

“I believe John will be fine,” Sherlock says coolly, walking up to them, and John always thought that a psychotic break would at least be more private than this. The students are still filing out, but a few have stopped in their rows to watch.

 

“Mike, this might be a bit of an odd question, but is there someone standing with us?”

 

“Yes...”

 

“And you think it's Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Is this some kind of joke?” Sherlock inquires, sounding unbearably patrician.

 

“Well, yes – it is Sherlock, I mean. I rather thought you were dead,” Mike says to the apparition.

 

“That was part of the plan,” Sherlock says, and John absolutely cannot be in this bloody lecture theatre any more, not when it feels as though he has a ball of wire wool scraping him open from the inside. He doesn't run away, but it's a near thing.

 

“John-” he hears, as the fire door closes behind him and he needs to hide, he needs some air, he needs to be alone so he can avoid traumatising the baby doctors.

 

“John, wait-”

 

“You can shut the fuck up. I don't know if you're real, but please shut up until I can-” There's a men's toilets. Lockable doors, thank Christ. John bolts himself in and puts down the toilet seat, sitting down for a few blissfully quiet seconds before the door opens. Black polished shoes slap against the tiled floor, coming to rest in front of John's cubicle.

 

“John, this is really unnecessary.” Sherlock's voice is impatient, with that hint of irritation he got – gets – got whenever he didn't understand why John was doing something.

 

“You're a hallucination,” John says uselessly, aware that talking back is probably a bad sign. “You don't get to have an opinion. I could deal with just your voice, but this is, this is too much.” Not that it ever stopped him before, Sherlock was too much on a weekly basis before-

 

“I'm... you heard my voice? While I was gone?” Sherlock never sounded so unsure in John's head.

 

“You killed yourself in front of me. Trust me when I tell you that it left a mark.” It's easier talking to the cubicle door.

 

“But I didn't kill myself. I just had to make you think I did.”

 

“If that's true, then why have I spent three years grieving?” John asks, his voice raw. “Because my friend Sherlock wouldn't have let me – he'd have sent a cryptic note, a text message. Moriarty being dead and all. He wouldn't leave me in pain for a cover story -”

 

“-unless he needed it to be air-tight.” Sherlock says gently. “Because oddly enough, a lot of people know that you are my only friend, that you are the person I would call above all others. Which is exactly why you couldn't know.”

 

Sherlock squats down on his haunches, the edges of his long coat dragging into view under the bottom of the door.

 

“I regret it. I am... not usually given to regret.”

 

“I need some time.” John tells the door firmly. “You should text me, just so I don't start thinking this didn't- but I'm not going to reply unless I'm ready.”

 

“Acceptable,” Sherlock says, his voice pained, “and wise. I have some others to inform; I'll tell you who and when. Independent confirmation-”

 

“Please, yes.” John says gratefully. He wants very much for this conversation not to be in his head.

 

“It is the least I can do,” Sherlock says, his voice savage. “After this... well. I shall see you soon, I hope.”

 

“Soon.” John chokes out.

 

There is a squeal of hinges as the men's room door swings shut. It takes John five minutes or so to collect himself, smoothing down his hair and his wrinkled shirt as though by doing so he could calm the creases of his mind. It takes him half an hour to get home on the tube, sitting carefully, unnaturally still.

 

He's just starting to wonder whether he'd had an unusually vivid dream when his phone buzzes twice.

 

MYCROFT HAS BEEN INFORMED. RESULTS UNKNOWN. SH

 

A black car pulls up outside 221 Baker Street as John gets home.

 

“What happened?” John asks, leaning in through the rolled up window.

 

“Mr Holmes is upstairs,” Anthea says, not looking up. “I don't want to know.”

 

Mycroft takes one look at John and purses his lips.

 

“I believe we have found some common ground, Dr Watson. My brother is... extremely thoughtless.”

 

“I wouldn't disagree.”

 

“He panicked, I imagine. Understandable. A threat to himself he can reason with, but a threat to the few people he loves would have been both novel and terrifying.”

 

“So me, you-”

 

“Yourself, DI Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. I am flattered by your inclusion of me, but I am not easy to credibly threaten.”

 

“He's... he's not coming back here,” John says, with a credible attempt at firmness. “I have my limits.”

 

“Do you?” Mycroft says inscrutably, and stands. “I shall see you anon, Doctor. Please, don't get up.”

 

LESTRADE INFORMED. HAVE BEEN DETAINED. NOT PLEASED. SH.

 

John calls Lestrade.

 

“Is it true-”

 

“You'd better make him beg,” Sally Donovan yells, and there's the sound of a scuffle before Lestrade comes back on the line.

 

“Yes, if by 'it' you mean 'Sherlock is a total arse'. We'll let him out in a bit. Probably.”

 

“He is a total wanker.” John says with conviction. “Tell him from me. Tell Sally to tell him from me.”

 

He hears Sally shout a distant “Thank you!” followed by Lestrade's “Oi!”

 

John gets another text.

 

I AM NOT. SH

 

 **Are too** , he texts back before thinking about it

 

WHEN CAN I COME HOME? SH

 

John puts down the phone and cries for a good ten minutes before wiping his eyes and making himself a cup of tea, which he then discards in favour of some whisky. His inhibitions lowered, he can think of a few things he wants to say to Sherlock and his stupid face.

 

**My home**

**It’s not your home**

It takes a good half-hour for the reply to come through, and John has to check back through his old messages to remind himself that this is real.

 

NOTED. SH

 

He almost, almost asks Sherlock to come over after Lestrade lets him out. Almost. But the John of yesterday lingers in his mind, raw and hurt and nearly hallucinating, and he owes it to himself to have some small revenge.

 

The voice in his head observes that if he wants to be bitter and petty, then very well, but that he does not seem to be deriving much pleasure from self-denial.

 

“It’s not self-denial.”

 

 _But you want to see him again,_ Sherlock’s voice points out, and John is so blindingly angry he can’t breathe for a moment.

 

“If someone hurt you, the way you’ve hurt me,” he points out, “you would kill them. You would never speak to them again. You wouldn’t invite them back into your flat, into your life.”

 

 _So what? I’m a wanker, you’ve always known that,_ Sherlock’s voice points out, his posh tones shaping around the word like a foreign object. _It was done to protect you_.

 

“And I’m still fucking hallucinating,” John says accusingly. There’s no reply. He sighs, peels himself off the sofa and goes wearily to bed.

 

*

 

He tells Mrs Hudson the next morning, and they share their expressions of outrage over a pot of tea and some custard creams.

 

“So, when are you going to let him move back in?”

 

John opens his mouth to protest, to say never again, and she gives him a knowing look. He closes his mouth again, and sighs.

 

“Don’t know. When I can stand to look at his face again?”

 

“You make him work for it, dear,” she says, patting his hand. “You don’t want this kind of thing to become a habit in a relationship.”

 

John laughs so hard he nearly cries. He spends the rest of the day cleaning the flat.

 

*

 

**Where are you staying?**

 

HOTEL CONTINENTAL SOUTHAMPTON ROW. SH

 

**Come home. Pick up some milk on the way**

REALLY? SH

 

**Yes, you pillock**

 

I THOUGHT IT WOULD TAKE MORE THAN MILK. SH

 

**You are going to apologise, mean it, and never do this again**

 

AGREED. SH


End file.
